The PRETENDER, surrounded by his supporters
PRETENDER. Where is the prisoner?
A POLE. Here.
PRETENDER. Call him before me.
(A Russian prisoner enters.)
Who art thou?
PRISONER. Rozhnov, a nobleman of Moscow.
PRETENDER. Hast long been in the service?
PRISONER. About a month.
PRETENDER. Art not ashamed, Rozhnov, that thou hast drawn The sword against me?
PRISONER. What else could I do? ‘Twas not our fault.
PRETENDER. Didst fight beneath the walls Of Seversk?
PRISONER. ‘Twas two weeks after the battle I came from Moscow.
PRETENDER. What of Godunov?
PRISONER. The battle’s loss, Mstislavsky’s wound, hath caused him Much apprehension; Shuisky he hath sent To take command.
PRETENDER. But why hath he recalled Basmanov unto Moscow?
PRISONER. The tsar rewarded His services with honour and with gold. Basmanov in the council of the tsar Now sits.
PRETENDER. The army had more need of him. Well, how go things in Moscow?
PRISONER. All is quiet, Thank God.
PRETENDER. Say, do they look for me?
PRISONER. God knows; They dare not talk too much there now. Of some The tongues have been cut off, of others even The heads. It is a fearsome state of things— Each day an execution. All the prisons Are crammed. Wherever two or three forgather In public places, instantly a spy Worms himself in; the tsar himself examines At leisure the denouncers. It is just Sheer misery; so silence is the best.
PRETENDER. An enviable life for the tsar’s people! Well, how about the army?
PRISONER. What of them? Clothed and full-fed they are content with all.
PRETENDER. But is there much of it?
PRISONER. God knows.
PRETENDER. All told Will there be thirty thousand?
PRISONER. Yes; ‘twill run Even to fifty thousand.
(The Pretender reflects; those around him glance at one another.)
PRETENDER. Well! Of me What say they in your camp?
PRISONER. Your graciousness They speak of; say that thou, Sire, (be not wrath), Art a thief, but a fine fellow.
PRETENDER. (Laughing.) Even so I’ll prove myself to them in deed. My friends, We will not wait for Shuisky; I wish you joy; Tomorrow, battle.
(Exit.)
ALL. Long life to Dimitry!
A POLE. Tomorrow, battle! They are fifty thousand, And we scarce fifteen thousand. He is mad!
ANOTHER. That’s nothing, friend. A single Pole can challenge Five hundred Muscovites.
PRISONER. Yes, thou mayst challenge! But when it comes to fighting, then, thou braggart, Thou’lt run away.
POLE. If thou hadst had a sword, Insolent prisoner, then (pointing to his sword) with this I’ld soon Have vanquished thee.
PRISONER. A Russian can make shift Without a sword; how like you this (shows his fist), you fool?
(The Pole looks at him haughtily and departs in silence. All laugh.)
A FOREST
PRETENDER and PUSHKIN
(In the background lies a dying horse)
PRETENDER. Ah, my poor horse! How gallantly he charged Today in the last battle, and when wounded, How swiftly bore me. My poor horse!
PUSHKIN. (To himself.) Well, here’s A great ado about a horse, when all Our army’s smashed to bits.
PRETENDER. Listen! Perhaps He’s but exhausted by the loss of blood, And will recover.
PUSHKIN. Nay, nay; he is dying.
PRETENDER. (Goes to his horse.) My poor horse!—what to do? Take off the bridle, And loose the girth. Let him at least die free.
(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse. Some Poles enter.)
Good day to you, gentlemen! How is’t I see not Kurbsky among you? I did note today How to the thick of the fight he clove his path; Around the hero’s sword, like swaying ears Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry Drowned all cries else. Where is my knight?
POLE. He fell On the field of battle.
PRETENDER. Honour to the brave, And peace be on his soul! How few unscathed Are left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks, Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is Have ruined us! Not even for three minutes To keep the foe at bay! I’ll teach the villains! Every tenth man I’ll hang. Brigands!
PUSHKIN. Whoe’er Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted, Routed!
PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered. Just When I had dealt with their front rank, the Germans Repulsed us utterly. But they’re fine fellows! By God! Fine fellows! I love them for it. From them I’ll form an honourable troop.
PUSHKIN. And where Shall we now spend the night?
PRETENDER. Why, here, in the forest. Why not this for our night quarters? At daybreak We’ll take the road, and dine in Rilsk. Good night.
(He lies down, puts a saddle under his head, and falls asleep.)
PUSHKIN. A pleasant sleep, tsarevich! Smashed to bits, Rescued by flight alone, he is as careless As a simple child; ‘tis clear that Providence Protects him, and we, my friends, will not lose heart.
MOSCOW. PALACE OF THE TSAR
BORIS. BASMANOV
TSAR. He is vanquished, but what profit lies in that? We are crowned with a vain conquest; he has mustered Again his scattered forces, and anew Threatens us from the ramparts of Putivl. Meanwhile what are our heroes doing? They stand At Krom, where from its rotten battlements A band of Cossacks braves them. There is glory! No, I am ill content with them; thyself I shall despatch to take command of them; I give authority not to birth, but brains. Their pride of precedence, let it be wounded! The time has come for me to hold in scorn The murmur of distinguished nobodies, And quash pernicious custom.
BASMANOV. Ay, my lord Blessed a hundredfold will be that day When fire consumes the lists of noblemen With their dissensions, their ancestral pride.
TSAR. That day is not far off; let me but first Subdue the insurrection of the people.
BASMANOV. Why trouble about that? The people always Are prone to secret treason; even so The swift steed champs the bit; so doth a lad Chafe at his father’s ruling. But what then? The rider quietly controls the steed, The father sways the son.
TSAR. Sometimes the horse Doth throw the rider, nor is the son at all times Quite ‘neath the father’s will; we can restrain The people only by unsleeping sternness. So thought Ivan, sagacious autocrat And storm-subduer; so his fierce grandson thought. No, no, kindness is lost upon the people; Act well—it thanks you not at all; extort And execute—‘twill be no worse for you.
(Enter a boyar.)
What now?
BOYAR. The foreign guests are come.
TSAR. I go To welcome them. Basmanov, wait, stay here; I still have need to speak: a word with thee.
